The Magdalen Martyrs

The girl was on her knees, polishing the floor. She was dressed in shapeless faded overalls. A spotless white apron bore witness to the laundry she was confined to. For three hours she’d been attempting to bring a high gloss to the floor. She knew it wouldn’t be complete till the very surface reflected her face. The baby she’d had to give up hung like a wound on her soul, searing the very prayers she was trying to mouth.

A dizzy spasm hit her and she bent forward, mopped her brow with a rag from beneath her sleeve. She heard footsteps and the click of heels on the wooden floor, a nun approaching. The voice came like a lash.

“Who told you to stop working, you lazy trollop?”

She knew better than to answer back but did lift her head momentarily to see which of the nuns it was. The swish of the heavy black beads came too quickly for her to duck, and it caught her full across the face, cutting her cheek and laying a welt along the ridge of her eye. The blood came spurting, marking the clean floor. The nun raised the beads again, saying,

“Now look at the state of that floor, you heathen street-walker.”

The girl bit her lower lip as she fought not to cry out. If they saw you weep, it seemed to incite them to even worse excesses. In her mind she called to a God who had so long ago deserted her, and there was no family she could ever appeal to. The nun was already raising the beads for a third and lethal blow.

December is a rough month. Screw all that festive preparation. If you’re on your own, it mocks you at every turn. You open an old book and find a list of friends you once sent cards to. Now, they’re all dead or disappeared. The television is crammed with toys for children you never had, and boy, is it ever too late. The radio is playing ballads that once held significance or even hope.

It has been said that you truly only realise the full impact of being alone when you’re in the kitchen, as you prepare a meal for one. Everything is singular: one cup, one set of cutlery, one plate and, probably, one lousy plan. Live long enough alone and you develop obsessive traits. As soon as the meal is done, you wash the plate. Why? Who the hell is going to complain? Let the shit stack up for a week and see who cares; but you don’t because you can’t. The rituals you have developed are all that tie you to the human race, and the worst bit is the knowledge you are doing this.

Man, I’d gone through some different homes these past years. I’d had a flat along the canal, and if not happy there, I was as near to content as it gets. Got evicted and moved to Bailey’s Hotel, one of the few remaining private ones in Galway.

Then, as the result of a case I was investigating, I seemed to land on my uppers and moved to a house in Hidden Valley. That was fine. Had me a time. Stone floors, open fireplace, deep freeze, neighbours, books... in a wooden bookcase... the whole citizen deal. But blew that to hell and gone with the worst judgement call of my chequered career. I feel the guilt and recriminations still. The line of dead who accuse me at every turn of sleep, they come in silent dread, the eyes fixed on me as I twist and moan in vain hope of escape.

So I drink. I’m way past my sell-by date and am on precious borrowed time. I should have gone down a long time ago. Lots of days, I wish I had.

The first two weeks of December I was dry. Gearing up. I knew I’d never get through the whole fiasco sober so was putting in time for good behaviour. It’s just another delusion that alcoholics practise. These lies are nearly as vital as the alcohol. You hug them close as prayer, and they are twice as heartfelt. The constant rain and the fecking cold, it permeates your bones. Along the way, I’d been seriously addicted to cocaine but was even refraining from that. So, I had the chills and shakes and, of course, a major dose of them blues.

I was living again in Bailey’s Hotel. Located near the tourist office, it is not easy to find and survives against the odds. Owned by a widow in her eighties, for some reason she has affection for me and continues to keep a room for me despite my worst excesses. She is under the impression I helped her out once; and if I did, I’ve forgotten how or even when. I’m grateful she doesn’t judge me. Perhaps it’s that we are both of that endangered species, “Old Galway”, and our time is truly limited. When we go, the hotel will be converted to luxury apartments, and some yuppy will tread on the bones of our deluded selves.

Her staff consists mainly of Janet, a woman as old as herself, who is pot-walloper, maid, conscience, cleaner and as religious a woman as I’ve ever met. Because I read so many books, Janet thinks I’m somebody. This is an old Irish notion that, alas, fools fewer and fewer people. I had a calendar on the wall. The Sacred Heart was on the front, and the days were marked with pithy sayings to uplift your day. I can’t say they much uplifted mine. In red, the 18th stood out like a beacon. It’s my father’s birthday. That was the day I’d drink again. Just knowing the very time when I’d lift a glass got me through so many other impossible hours. I’d planned well. Had four bottles of black Bushmill’s, twenty-four pint cans of Guinness and an ounce of coke. I kid you not, this was just for openers; and for the lock-down days of Christmas, I thought it was a fairly decent plan.

The day came and I lashed in with a vengeance. Managed a week till I got a blackout and ended back in hospital. They were not pleased to see me and read me a minor riot act. Their hearts weren’t in it, as they knew I’d drink again. Mid-January, I was back in Bailey’s, trying to ration my drinking, abstaining from coke and suffering a depression like the depths of hell. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I was running some lines of Ann Kennedy in my head.

These lines:

Go figure.

I can’t.

There’s a pub in Balham that’s exclusively for the insane. About a hundred yards from the bingo hall, which is appropriate. Even the staff are seriously deranged. When I was hurting, which was often, I’d go there and blend. You always met someone who knew hell from the inside. Shortly after my marriage, I’d gone there, ordered a pint and a whiskey, considered my future. A guy next to me was dropping soluble aspirin into a pint of mild.

I didn’t ask.

He said,

“You’re dying to ask.”

Took a look at him. A tattoo on his neck that was either an anchor or a swastika, a scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his upper lip. As often is, he had gentle eyes. Sure, there was lunacy, but you can’t preserve that gentleness with sanity. I said,

“If you want to tell me.”

Nice neutral territory. He savoured my answer, then,

“Stops the hangover.”

“Right.”

Then, oh so very carefully, he slid the glass to his left and shouted up a pint of bitter. He said,

“The trick is not to drink it.”

For that day and precious few others, I was wearing the wedding band. Bright and glowing, in that place it reeked of another country. He fastened on the glow, said,

“You’re married.”

“Yeah.”

“You know the best thing ‘bout that.”

“No.”

“They can’t call you queer.”

I had recently got my customary letter from

I did what I always did.

Crumpled it and lobbed it fast across the room. I’d been receiving variations of the same letter for years. No matter where I lived, by the canal, in Bailey’s Hotel, London or Hidden Valley, these missives eventually found me.

I’d been a guard, and if not the finest years of my life, they were certainly the ones that made the most sense. I’d trained at Templemore and had the makings of a fine career. It seems odd now but I truly cared then. The first time I walked down the street in my uniform with the buttons gleaming, my cap at a firm angle, the baton to hand, I thought I could make a difference. The first wake-up call came about a month into my duty. I was on night patrol, an older sergeant walking point. We got a call to a domestic and arrived to find a drunken husband locked outside his house. The sergeant said,

“If we have to arrest him, stand to his rear.”

I thought he doubted my courage, and sure enough, after we tried to talk to the man, he became abusive and we cautioned him. He told us to go fuck ourselves, and the sergeant said to arrest him, winking at me. Full of youth and bravado, I went face to face with the guy, and he vomited all over me. I can still hear the sergeant laughing. The next few years were good till I grew overfond of the jar and it became a cause of concern to my superiors, and I was eventually slung out. I kept the all-weather coat, and it was a reminder of the one chance of meaning I could have given my life.

That garment was my sole link to my career. If not validation, at least it was proof.

My previous case had provided accommodation, a house in Hidden Valley. To coin a London phrase, I’d been living it large. It ended in disaster. I’d moved back to Bailey’s Hotel.

Mrs Bailey, you felt she’d known the signatories of 1916. She had that fresh flawless skin almost patented by nuns. Her eyes were a blend of wisdom and mischief Can there be a better combination? Once, she’d told me,

“There’ll always be a room for you here.”

Now that may not count as wealth, but it’s a richness of rare elevation. A retired judge had taken my old room. He was old Galway, too, so that’s all the reference he needed. I was given the attic. I liked it. The skylight gave a false sense of light. All the essentials:

      Shower

      Kettle

      Phone

      TV.

Didn’t take me long to unpack. Yet again, I was down to the basics:

      Age Concern suit

      Leather jacket

      Item 8234

      Three jeans

      Bally boots

      Sneakers.

And, of course, my books.

  Music too. All of

      Johnny Duhan

      the Cowboy Junkies

      John Stewart

      Van Morrison.

A Monday morning, late January, I had an alcoholic fit. Doesn’t get more serious than that. Put me smack back in hospital. A doctor looming over me said,

“Mr Taylor, have you any idea what happened to you?”

“No.”

“The next attack could kill you.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He looked down at my chart, shook his head, said,

“Care isn’t what’s needed. You cannot drink.”

The episode terrorised me. When I got out of the hospital, I didn’t drink. But I’d been down that road a thousand times. Sooner or later, the edge of the fear dropped off or I got to “Who gives a fuck?” and drank.

I sank into deep and deeper depression. Getting out of bed became increasingly difficult. During the night, massive anxiety would pull me from sleep, on the hour, every hour. Drained, I’d crawl from bed and have to force myself to the shower. Food held no interest, but I tried. Asked myself, “Why bother?” Shaved my beard and was horrified at how sunken my face was. But hell, I’d great teeth.

In my last case, two brothers had come after me. If they lived in America, they’d have been trailer trash. Here, they were “bachelors”. Implying, it was their choice. Among their agenda of hatred were tinkers. I’d been working for the travellers. Coming home from a funeral, I’d been pissed and eating chips, the Irish Nirvana or, as purists might say, “Tir na nOg”.

The brothers had hit me in the mouth with an iron bar. Weeks of dentistry resulted in a smile that glowed.

I’d once heard depression described as being under murky, fetid water and not being able to break the surface.

That fit.

Each day was drearier than the one before. The high point was going to bed so I’d be able to just cease. If comfort could be squeezed from anything, it was the thought of suicide. It is deep shit when that’s the only light. Months before, I’d been drinking in a dive off Merchant’s Road. What drew me was the menace, palpable in the very air. A Russian sailor, dry-docked for eight months, sold me a .32-calibre Heckler & Koch. It’s a nasty piece of work; I was amazed to get it, and so cheap.

Most nights, I’d hold it in my hand and think,

“One movement up, then squeeze the trigger.”

I cannot say why I didn’t. Tried to return to books. There had always been reading. No matter what went down, I could always read. Wasn’t working any more. All my old reliable ones,

      Thomas Merton

      Nelson Algren

      Walter Macken

      Francis Thompson.

Nope.

Weren’t doing it.

Returned to a writer who’d give me the blackness. Derek Raymond, the founder of English noir. Also known as Robin Cook. He had a lifelong affinity with the criminal, the damaged. Educated at that “hotbed of buggery”, Eton, it was, he said, “an excellent preparation for vice of any kind”. Prompted by an almost terminal boredom, he absconded, first to Paris and the legendary Beat Hotel, then New York’s Lower East Side. The first of his five marriages went down the toilet after sixty-five days.

My own marriage had run almost parallel. I didn’t plan on four more.

He said,

I knew things were going wrong when I got home, put the shop-ping down in the kitchen and the table gave a terrible cough.

No wonder I loved him.

He wrote a spate of books that drew a cult following. Translated as good reviews, no money. It didn’t worry him unduly. He said,

I’ve watched people like Kingsley Amis, struggling to get on the up escalator, while I had the down escalator all to myself.

Here’s when I like him best.

Nearing fifty, he began the Factory novels. Unremittingly black thrillers, the protagonist haunted by personal tragedy and obsessed with the deaths no one else bothers with, they show London in despair. Scoured by “vile psychic weather”.

The books culminated in the astonishing I Was Dora Suarez, He wrote of his novel In Mourning,

If I had no guilt to purge, I would not have known where the road to hell was.... she was my atonement for 50 years indifference to the miserable state of this world, a terrible journey through my own guilt, and the guilt of others.

Liver cancer and booze took him out of the game at the age of sixty-three. I’d lined up his works by the wall, like a series of bullets I had to simply load. His final years, he lived in a Spartan bedsit in Willesden.

If I hadn’t known to mourn him back then, I was making up for that now.

I could feel his finger on the trigger of my Heckler & Koch.

In my previous case, I’d enlisted the help of a hard man named Bill Cassell. I asked him to protect a young girl and he did so. Then I further indebted myself by asking him to eliminate a killer. Such help doesn’t come cheap. Gave him a shitpile of money, but it was the favour he’d call in one day that was most worrying. You owe a man like him, you have to deliver, and the dread is waiting to see what it is he will ask. At the time, he does warn you, but I went ahead and made the trade. He is your seriously hard man; even the guards give him a wide berth. He doesn’t have perimeters, there is no line he won’t cross, and you better hope you are not the one he is crossing that line to see. The call came on a Sunday night. He opened with,

“You’re a hard man to find.”

“You managed.”

Low chuckle.

“Yeah.”

“How is your health, Bill?”

With liver cancer, how could it be? But I felt I should at least make an effort. He said,

“Fucked,”

“I’m sorry, Bill.”

“You’ll know why I’m calling,Jack.”

“My chit’s due?”

“Right.”

“What do you want?”

“Not on the phone. Sweeney’s at twelve, tomorrow.”

“I’m off the booze.”

“I heard. You won’t be there long.”

“I suppose that’s a comfort.”

“Take it where you find it.”

“I’ll try”

“Twelve, Jack, don’t be late.”

Click.

The depression sat on me like cement. I knew Bill’s call had to come, but now I couldn’t even rise to anxiety. All dealings with Bill required a high level of unease. Forced myself to put on my coat, get out for a walk. What I wanted was to curl up in a corner and weep. As I passed reception, Mrs Bailey said,

“Mr Taylor!”

“Jack, please.”

I knew she’d never get that familiar. Her face was concerned. She asked,

“Are you all right?”

“Touch of flu.”

We let that float above our heads for a moment. Then she said,

“You could do with a tonic.”

“Right.”

She looked like she’d a ton to add but let it slide, said,

“If there’s anything I can do...”

“Thanks.”

I walked to Eyre Square.

Gangs of young people milling about, all with cans of lager, flasks of cider.

      Booze

      Booze

      Booze

I went to Nestor’s. Jeff was tending bar. He was the picture of health. He and his girlfriend Cathy had recently had a baby, a Down’s syndrome baby. He said,

“Jeez, Jack, where have you been?”

“Low profile.”

“Are you doing OK? You look, I dunno, kind of haunted.” I juggled that expression, repeated,

“Haunted, now there’s a term. I’m off cigs, coke and booze. Why on earth would I be less than par?”

He was astonished, said,

“Even the cigs... the coke... Christ,Jack, I’m impressed.”

The sentry, in a semi-stupor since Christmas, raised his head, said,

“Good on yah,”

and slumped back on the counter.

In the days I drank in Grogan’s, there were always two men propping up the bar, one at each end, dressed in identical donkey jackets, cloth caps, Terylene pants. Sentries, I called them. They never spoke to each other. No acknowledgement ever. In front of them, always a half drained pint; no matter what hour you came upon them, the level of the glass never varied. When Grogan’s changed hands, one had a heart attack and the other moved to Nestor’s. Jeff said,

“There was a young guy, looking for you.”

“How young?”

“Twenty-five maybe.”

“That’s young. What did he want?”

“Something about work.”

“Did he give a name?”

He rooted through a pile of papers, found it, read,

“Terry Boyle.”

“What did you make of him?”

“Um... polite. Oh yeah, he had a good suit.”

“And that tells us what?”

“I don’t know. If he comes in again, you want me to ask him anything?”

“Yeah, ask him where he got the suit.”

I went back to the hotel, muttering,

“See, was that so difficult? You were in a pub, didn’t drink, you did good.”

As I lay on my bed, I asked myself,

“Did that make you feel better?”

Did it fuck?

I’d read Alvarez’s study of suicide, The Savage God. Got to the chapter where he discussed his own failed attempt.

Whatever else, I didn’t want to screw it up. Read what the medical experts had to say.

This.

Most suicides will communicate their intentions, verbally or nonverbally.

I reached for a cigarette, realised I wasn’t smoking any more. Continued.

In America, they have QPR intervention: questioning, persuading, referring. I was reading about it in the paper.

How it worked was you listened, then talked the PS, the potential suicide, into getting professional help, fast. The hot phase of a suicide crisis was three weeks. Potential suicides make predictions, like “I’ll be dead before Christmas” or “I’ll never see the summer.”

I then waded through a mess of medical terminology, until I came to

Gatekeepers are the first people to realise the potential suicide is serious. They are the first “finder”. It’s their duty, responsibility, to direct the potential suicide towards help.

I stopped reading. So at last I could call myself something. A “PS”, ending up like an afterthought to a letter.

Gatekeepers! The pity was I hadn’t anyone to fill the role.

Sweeney’s is a hard pub. Anyone who strays in there is quickly shown the door.

Welcome is not part of the deal. Bill Cassell had held court there for as long as I remember. When I walked in, the place went quiet. Then, as it registered who I was, conversations resumed. I was at least familiar. Bill was at his usual table, looking even worse than before. The eyes, though, they were as bright and unyielding as ever. He said,

“I ordered coffee.”

“Coffee’s good.”

I took the seat opposite him. The barman brought the coffee. No one spoke. When he’d gone, Bill said,

“You don’t look so good, Jack.”

“Clean living is killing me.”

“You owe me double, Jack.”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m going to let you clean the sheet with one job.”

“OK.”

He sat back, fixed his eyes on me, asked,

“What do you know about the Magdalen laundry?”

“The Maggies?”

Anger lit his eyes, and he snapped,

“Don’t call them that.”

The Magdalen girls were called thus. In the fifties, unwed mothers were placed there by their families or the Church. Conditions were appalling and the girls subjected to horrendous abuse. Only recently had the full story been revealed.

He asked,

“Do you remember my mother?”

“No...”

“She was there. Had a terrible time. They shaved her head, wrapped her in wet sheets. But she escaped, met my father, and they had me. I learnt most of this from my father, after her death. There was a woman there, named Rita Monroe. It was she who helped my mother escape.”

He stopped. The story seemed to have drained him. I waited till he regained some energy, asked,

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Find Rita Monroe.”

“Can’t you do that yourself?”

“I’ve tried.”

“But after all this time, she’s probably dead.”

“So be it. If she is alive, I’d like to thank her in person.”

“Jeez, Bill, it’s a reach. Was she a nun?”

“No, one of the lay staff they sometimes employed. You have a knack of finding resolutions; somehow or other, you get the job done.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“Give it better than that, Jack. You may or may not know I have some new help, apart from my usual boy. That’s the big one who wears a white tracksuit. He’s the one you see, but my new boy, now him you don’t want to see, not ever. He’s from Dublin, and I use him to... let’s say... terminate a debt. Trust me, but you don’t ever want to see him. You’ll smell him first, because the crazy fuck, he’s always chewing Juicy Fruit, the gum? He comes up behind you, and you think you’ve been ambushed by an air freshener. I tell you... Nev, he’s a tonic.”

I didn’t reply; my eyes strayed to the bar, the spirit bottles calling me. He said,

“And stay sober.”

I figured we were done, got up to leave, when he said,

“No doubt you’ll have heard the stories about me.”

The stories were legion. Usually involving ferocious retribution. I nodded and he said,

“The fast food place, they got that wrong.”

One of the most repeated. The owner owed Bill money and wasn’t paying up. The yarn went that Bill had pushed the guy’s face into the fat fryer. He said,

“I didn’t put his face in the fat.”

“I never believed it anyway.”

He looked straight at me, said,

“It was his balls.”

After leaving Bill, I felt a lightening of my spirit. Not a whole lot but enough for me to answer someone who shouted hello. It was the first break in the darkness for so long. I didn’t expect to find Rita Monroe, but at least I could make the effort.

Back at the hotel, I began. Asked Mrs Bailey,

“Did you ever hear of a Monroe?”

“From Galway?”

“I don’t know... a Rita Monroe.”

She gave it serious thought, then,

“No, it’s an unusual name so I’d remember. Ask Janet. She knows everyone.”

Janet didn’t know either. Next, to the phone directory, found ten Monroes listed. Rang them all. No Rita in any of them or even relatives. Went to the parish records and drew another blank. Course, she could be married. What I needed was someone familiar with the Magdalen. Walked down to Forster Street to where it had been located.

Demolished now, luxury apartments on the site. I wondered if the new occupiers were aware of what had been here. An elderly man was coming down the hill, measuring his steps with extreme care. He caught my eye, said,

“Howyah.”

I figured it was an outside shot, said,

“Howyah yourself. You’re a Galwegian, I’d say.”

“Born and bred.”

This, with a mixture of pride. I asked,

“Do you remember the Magdalen?”

He gave me an irritated look, as if I’d questioned his faculties. Near shouted,

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“No, I didn’t mean any offence. It’s just you don’t hear much about it.”

He spat on the road, said,

“Best forgotten. It was like a concentration camp. They were worse than the Nazis.”

“Who?”

“Anyone involved in the running of it. May they roast in hell.”

He brushed past me, his piece spoken. I went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place, with the habitual half pint. Jeff was stocking up, said,

“Jack, you look better.”

“I feel it.”

“What’ll I get you, coffee?”

“Sure. Could I have a word with Cathy?”

“Yeah.”

He shouted for her, then turned back to me, asked,

“You working on something?”

“Maybe.”

“You have that gleam in your eye. Not that you’d listen, but is it a good idea? The last couple of cases nearly killed you.”

“This is different.”

“I hope so, I really do.”

Cathy came down and, first off, a huge hug. She said,

“You shaved the beard.”

“What can I tell you? A change if not an improvement.”

She examined me, said,

“You could do with some nourishment.”

I listened to her voice with amazement. Cathy was a hard edged London punk when I met her. She had tracks on her arms and a mouth as foul as the weather. Then she’d met Jeff and gone native. Traces of London still lingered in her expressions, but they were becoming scarce. I missed the old version. She said,

“Your eyes and skin are clear.”

“So?”

“So you’ve kicked.”

“I’m trying.”

“There is help, AA, NA.”

I shook my head and she said,

“It’s nearly impossible to do it alone.”

“Can we move on to something else? I need your help.”

In the past, Cathy had proved very resourceful. She had a knack of not only tracking down information but doing it quickly. She asked,

“What do you need?”

“Ever hear of the Magdalen?”

“No.”

“OK, I’m trying to trace a woman named Rita Monroe.”

“No problem, I’ll get right on it.”

She didn’t ask anything further, so I said,

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

“That would be a first.”

Brendan Flood was an exgarda who’d discovered religion. My first encounter, he’d half killed me, broken my fingers and left me for dead. By a strange set of circumstances, we’d become unlikely allies. He’d helped me solve a case. The last time I’d en-listed his help, I ignored his contribution and an innocent man was killed. I hadn’t seen him since.

Rang him and, reluctantly, he agreed to meet. As usual, he chose Supermacs. There he’d look longingly at large containers of curried chips. I’d offer to buy, he’d decline, as penance. I got there first, got a double cheeseburger and a milkshake. Was picking at these when he arrived. He was wearing a donkey jacket, leather patches on the sleeves. It was open to reveal a heavy silver cross on an even heavier chain. I said,

“Thanks for meeting me.”

“It was God’s will.”

I pushed the food aside and he said,

“It is sinful to waste that.”

“You want it?”

“I’m abstaining.”

“Naturally.”

He sat, folded his hands like a supplicant or an ejit, said,

“I believe you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“You what?”

“That you’ve abandoned your various vices.”

“More like them abandoning me.”

He gave a small smile, piety leaking from the corners, said,

“Our prayers were answered.”

“What?”

“Our Tuesday night group; we prayed for you by name.”

“Thanks.”

He leaned over, put a hand on my arm, said,

“Now you’ve begun on the path, you should come and bear witness. People speak in tongues.”

“Yeah, any of them civil?”

He withdrew his hand as if burned, said,

“Be careful of mockery, Jack Taylor.”

I was getting a headache, asked,

“Could you check on somebody for me?”

He shook his head, said,

“Dire consequences tend to accompany you.”

“Look, this is a different deal. There was a woman, Rita Monroe, who was a decent human being.”

He thought it over, asked,

“You wish to locate this woman?”

“That’s it.”

“I shall meditate and ask the Lord for direction.”

Buoyed by my activities, I got a takeaway curry, settled in front of the TV, Watched for a few hours without registering a whole lot. Then Buffy came on. Despite myself, I started to pay attention. Count Dracula had a guest appearance. Buffy asked him why he’d come. He hissed,

“For the sun?”

Was smiling despite myself.Angel followed next. He’s a vampire good guy. This episode, he was forced to sing in a demon karaoke bar, despite protesting,

“Three things I don’t do: tan, date and sing in public.”

He mangled Barry Manilow’s “Mandy”. But the MC, who was green and scaly with red eyes, was impressed, said,

“There’s not a destroyer of worlds can argue with Manilow.”

The phone went. I answered, heard,

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Terry Boyle.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something?”

“I spoke to your friend Jeff in Nestor’s, about a job.”

“Oh yeah, the guy with the suit.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You are... an episode of Angel!”

“Are you serious?”

“You bet. I just watched Buffy!”

“Oh.”

“So, what do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“I’m already on something.”

“Could I at least make a pitch?”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps I could buy you lunch. Would the Brasserie at one tomorrow be suitable?”

“OK.”

“Thank you, Mr Taylor, you won’t regret it.”

“I doubt that.”

Click.

The credits were rolling on Angel. I considered watching Sky News but felt fatigue come calling. In bed, for the first time in ages, I felt the faint glimmer of hope. If I could just hang on to this fragile feeling, I might struggle through. Not surprisingly, I dreamt of vampires. The thing was, they all wore the face of Bill Cassell. His usual minder was there, of course, the big guy, and a third man whom I couldn’t see. When I replayed the dream again, I thought of those lines from “The Waste Land”, the ones about “the third who walks always beside you”.

When I woke, I thought I smelled something odd, took me a time to identify it.

Juicy Fruit.

I wore the Age Concern suit. No doubt, it had been a decent item once. I choose it for two reasons: because it was cheap and dark. Checked myself in the mirror. I looked like a corpse that the undertaker had failed to help. Wore a white shirt and wool tie. Only accentuated the lousy suit. When I entered the Brasserie, a gorgeous girl approached, asked,

“Table for one?”

“I dunno, I’m supposed to meet a Mr Boyle.”

Her face lit up and,

“Oh, Terence.”

My heart sank and she added,

“He’s at his usual table, over here.”

Led me to the centre, beamed,

“Voila.”

Terry Boyle stood up, smiled.

“Jack Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

I hoped my dourness showed. He put out his hand, said,

“Glad you could make it!”

“Yeah.”

He was well built, about six two, blond hair and a fresh complexion. Not good looking but what they call presentable. Dark grey suit that shouted money. His age was in the thirty zone. The first Irish generation to grow up without the spectre of unemployment and emigration, this had given them an ease, a self-confidence and natural assurance.

The opposite of everything I grew up with. They faced the world on equal footing. We’d sneaked into life with a trail of fear, inadequacy, resentment and yes... begrudgery My response was booze. His generation toyed with Hooches. He said,

“Take a seat.”

I did, resolving to burn my suit at the first chance. He asked,

“A drink?”

“Some water, maybe.”

He nodded and I asked,

“What?”

“I heard you had a... you know... a problem.”

Christ, was there anyone who hadn’t heard? I asked,

“You heard where?”

“Superintendent Clancy. He was a friend of the family.”

The waitress came, breezed,

“Ready to order, guys?”

“Jack, what would you like?”

“You seem to know the place, I’ll follow you.”

“The spaghetti is dynamite... that OK? Need a starter?”

I shook my head. The start I needed was a triple scotch. He poured water into glasses, said,

“The grub’s excellent. You’ll be pleased.”

“I can hardly wait.”

He gave me a searching look, checked over his shoulder, then back to me with,

“I’m gay”

I turned, shouted to the waitress,

“Glass of wine.”

Terence was shocked, stammered,

“Oh don’t, I didn’t mean to set you off.”

I laughed, repeated,

“Set me off! What a great expression. I know you all of two minutes, and you seriously think you can set me off”

Jesus, I was shouting. The waitress came with the drink. Placed it in the middle of the table, no man’s land. White wine in a long-stemmed glass, beads of moisture clinging to the out-side, like precarious aspirations. Terence tried again.

“I didn’t mean to... blurt out my sexual orientation. But I’ve found it best to get it in the open from the beginning.”

I leaned over, close to his face, asked,

“What makes you think your sexual identity is of the slightest interest to anybody?”

He hung his head. At least I’d stopped shouting, for which we were all grateful. I said,

“You have the wine.”

He grabbed it, downed half in a second, said,

“Thank you... I mean, could we start over? I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Sure.”

The food came. I’m sure it was delicious, but I could only toy with it. Terence didn’t fare much better. I asked,

“Tell me what Clancy said about me.”

He pushed the food aside, began,

“It was the time of the teenage suicides, remember?”

As if I could ever forget. I nodded and he continued,

“The Superintendent used to golf with my dad. The suicides were the talk of the town. He said you’d solved it, despite being an almost chronic alcoholic. He said you could really have been something if drink hadn’t ruined you.”

I looked at him, asked,

“And what, you think that was some kind of recommendation?”

“I went to an agency, they wouldn’t touch the case.”

“What case?”

“My father was murdered.”

“Oh.”

“I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“His wife.”

“What?”

“My stepmother.”

“Aw, come on.”

“I’m serious. Please, will you just check her out, a preliminary investigation? I’ll pay well.”

I was now sitting on the steps outside the Augustinian church. A faint hint of sun was in the sky, and I felt I should acknowledge it. A Romanian woman, two kids in tow, asked me,

“Is this church Catholic?”

“It is.”

And they walked away, not looking back. On the wall beside me was a huge glass case. Our Mother of Perpetual Help used to reside there. Someone stole her.

Terence had given me a fat envelope stashed with cash. His stepmother’s name was Kirsten, and she lived at the family home in Taylor’s Hill. The father had been found dead in bed of a heart attack. I said,

“Nothing suspicious there.”

Terence had sighed, answered,

“Speed, speed would have accelerated it. He had a history of coronary trouble.”

“Speed?”

“Kirsten’s drug of choice.”

“Wouldn’t an autopsy have shown this?”

“There was no autopsy.”

“Why didn’t you demand one?”

“I was in New York. When I got back, he was already cremated.”

I thought about that, admitted,

“That’s odd.”

“Wait till you meet Kirsten; you don’t know what odd means.”

“And I’m to see her how?... Just call and ask, ‘Did you kill your husband?’”

Terence let his irritation show, said,

“You’re the private eye. You’re supposed to be good at this.”

“Jeez, who’s that good?”

He indicated the envelope, said,

“It’s what you’re being paid for.”

I didn’t answer right off, let his tone hang between us, then,

“Terence, one time I’m going to mention this.”

“What?”

Like he was seriously irritated now. I said,

“Lose the attitude. Don’t ever talk to me like I’m the fucking hired help. You do and I’ll break your front teeth.”

Outside the restaurant, he’d given me his card. It had his name and three phone numbers. I asked,

“What do you do?”

“Software.”

“That’s an answer?”

“To my generation, the only one.”

I let him have that, said,

“OK, but I think this is a waste of your time and money.”

He gave me a small smile, said,

“See Kirsten, then we’ll talk.”

“Your money.”

“And don’t forget it.”

He was gone before I could react.

I’d walked towards Shop Street when I felt a tug on my arm. Turned to face my mother. She is your original martyr and is blessed to have me as her drunkard son. The farther down the toilet I go, the better she appears. My father was a good man, and she treated him like dirt. When he died, she did her grieving on the grand scale.

Leaped into widow’s weeds and spent every hour available at the church or graveyard, publicly displaying her loss. Her type usually has a tame cleric in tow. Fr Malachy, a prize asshole, was her escort for the previous years. I wouldn’t have liked him under the best of circumstances, but as her hostage, I out and out despised him. My last encounter, he’d shouted,

“You’ll be the death of your mother.”

I waited a beat before,

“Can I have that in writing?”

His face went purple and he gasped,

“Yah pup yah. Hell won’t be hot enough till you’re in it.”

Who says the golden age of the clergy has passed?

My mother said,

“I saw you at the Augustinian. Were you at mass?”

“Hardly.”

Her eyes had the usual granite hue. Under that scrutiny, you knew mercy was not ever on the agenda. Sometimes, though, she could whine anew. Like now, she said,

“I never see you, son.”

“Ever wonder why?”

“I pray daily for you, offer you at mass.”

“Don’t bother.”

She strived to appear hurt, didn’t carry it off and snapped,

“You’re my flesh and blood.”

My turn to sigh; it was definitely infectious.

“Was there anything else, Mother?”

“You have a hard heart, Jack. Couldn’t we have a cup of tea, talk like civilised human beings?”

I looked at my watch, said,

“I’m late for an appointment. I better go.”

“I haven’t been well.”

“I believe that.”

“Do you, son?”

“Oh, yeah, you never had a well day your whole miserable life.”

Then I was walking away. No doubt, Fr Malachy would receive an earful later. My heart was pounding and I could feel a tremor in my hands. Had to stop and take a breath outside the Imperial Hotel.

A fellah I knew was on his way in, stopped, asked,

“Fancy a pint, Jack?”

There was nothing I wanted more, but I said,

“No thanks, some other time.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

Next day, I ditched the suit. Went to the St Vincent de Paul shop and got a blazer, grey slacks and white shirts. Back at the hotel, I tried them on. Not bad and definitely a step up. In the lobby, Mrs Bailey said,

“My! You do look smart.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. A new woman?”

“In a way.”

“Wait a moment.”

She disappeared then returned with a dark knitted tie, said,

“It was my husband’s.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Course you could, now hold still.”

And she tied it for me, said,

“There, you are a handsome man.”

“Thank you.”

I caught a bus at the Square. It broke down before Dominic Street and I figured the hell with it, the walk will do me good.

At Nile Lodge, I checked the address Terence Boyle had given me and began the trek up Taylor’s Hill. No doubt about it, this was where the cash was. Past the Ardilaun Hotel and I came to Irish gates. A brass plate proclaimed, “St Anselm”.

Pushed them open and walked up a long, tree-lined drive. I was struck by the quiet. Like being in the country. Then the house, a three-storey mansion, ivy creeping along the windows. I stood at the front door, rang the bell.

A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman asked,

“Yes?”

English accent with an underlay of Irish. She was that indeterminate age between thirty and forty. Dark hair to her shoulders and a face that should have been pretty but didn’t quite achieve it. Maybe because of the eyes, brown with an unnerving stare. Button nose and full mouth. She had the appearance of someone who’s recently lost a lot of weight. Not gaunt but definitely stretched. I asked,

“Mrs Boyle?”

She gave me a long focused look, said,

“Yes.”

“I’m a friend of your husband’s.”

“Were.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wrong tense, he’s dead.”

“Oh... I am sorry.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I followed her, noticing how her arse bounced. I felt a tiny stir of interest. The house was ablaze with paintings. I don’t know were they any good, but they had the sheen of wealth. Led me into a sitting room, all dark wood. A bay window opened out to a large garden. She said,

“Have a seat.”

I sank into a well-worn chair, tried to get my mind in gear. She asked,

“Like a drink?”

“Some water, perhaps?”

She had moved to a full bar, now cocked a hip, said,

“I would have taken you for a drinking man.”

She managed to coat the taken with a sexual undertone. I loosened the tie, said,

“Used to be.”

She said,

“Ah... I’m going to have a screwdriver.”

“What?”

“Vodka and OJ. This time of the day, it cuts the glare.”

“I believe you.”

She rubbed at her arms a few times. I knew the burn from speed could do that. Watched as she fixed the drink. She had the quick movements of the practised drinker. Held up the bottle, said,

“Stoli.”

“I’ll take your word for that.”

“You watch movies?”

“Sure.”

“You see the likes of Julia Roberts, she orders a drink, it’s going to be Stoli on the rocks.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

She gave a vague smile, not related to humour. Chucked some ice in the glass, then poured the vodka freely. One of my favourite sounds has always been the clash of ice in a drink. But to a dry alcoholic, it’s akin to the torment of hell, a signal to despair. She asked,

“How did you know Frank?”

So distracted was I, I’d no idea who she meant till she added,

“My husband... the friend you’ve called to see.”

“Oh, right... we, um... go way back.”

She nodded, let the rim of the glass tap against her teeth, a grating noise. She said,

“Ah, you must have been at Clongowes with him.”

I clutched at the lifeline, agreed,

“Yeah, exactly.”

She moved over to the sofa, settled herself, let her skirt ride up along her thigh, said,

“Wrong answer, fellah.”

“Excuse me?”

“Frank didn’t go to Clongowes.”

She didn’t appear unduly concerned, moved to the bar, added a splash of vodka, I took a deep breath, said,

“You got me.”

She gave a tiny smile, asked,

“But who is it I’ve got?”

“Jack Taylor.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something.”

“I’m been paid to check you out.”

A slight raising of her eyebrows and,

“For what?”

“See if you killed your husband.”

“You’re fucking kidding!”

The curse rolling off her tongue easily, then it hit and she said,

“Terry, that little faggot.”

I nodded and she said,

“Jeez, you’re not too big on client confidentiality.”

I stood up, said,

“So, did you do it?”

“Gimme a break.”

“That’s a no.”

I moved towards the door, and she said,

“You have some neck, just call and ask me if I killed my husband.”

“It’s direct.”

She laughed, said,

“You have a phone number, if I decide to confess?”

“Bailey’s Hotel.”

“That’s where you live?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Jack Taylor, you might not be very good at your job, but you have a certain style.”

I’d reached the front door when she added,

“You decide to go back on the booze, give me a call.”

I gave her my best blank look, as if I’d no idea what she meant. She gave a nasty smile, said,

“I know the signs, and believe me, you’ll be back sooner than you think. It’s not really if you’ll drink, only when.”

“Screw you, lady.”

“You wish.”

And she banged the door in my face. I hated that she was right on both counts.

The following Monday, a second year student got a cappuccino from the deli. It was one of those crisp fine days, not a cloud in the sky. You could almost touch hope in the air. People’s spirits lightened and you’d get a howyah, a smile from strangers.

That kind of day.

The student sat on a bench at the Square, sipped at the coffee. A stray wino would approach and ask for

“Price of a cup of tea, sur.”

But it wasn’t a serious beg, more from habit than necessity. No intimidation in it. Two non-Europeans asked for directions to Social Security. At noon, the bells rang for the Angelus. Down near the Great Southern, two workmen stopped their labours and blessed themselves. That is a rare sight. Not that they ceased working but that they observed the Angelus.

Around 12.15 p.m., a man approached, stood for a second behind the student. Then he took out a gun, put it to the base of the student’s head and pulled the trigger. He then turned on his heel and walked towards the top of the Square... and dis-appeared.

As he walked away, he threw the wrapper from his Juicy Fruit on the road.

The guards weren’t appealing for witnesses. They had far too many.

All contradictory.

Descriptions ranged from, tall, short, fat, thin.

He had, variously, long hair, black hair, no hair.

Was wearing, a suit, leather jacket, wax jacket, raincoat.

But definitely, old, young, middle-aged.

A photofit issued fit half the male population and wasn’t dissimilar to a few women.

Superintendent Clancy intoned,

“This is a horrendous, heinous crime. The gardai will not cease until the perpetrator is apprehended.”

He rambled on about lawlessness, a crisis in society, drugs and a range of vaguely related topics.

Concluded with,

“The gardai are pursuing a definite line of inquiry.”

In other words, they had zilch.

I had gone to ground with a book.

Here’s the lengthy title:

Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the media conspire to limit what films we can see.

By Jonathan Rosenbaum.

I was well into it, had almost forgotten how badly I wanted a drink. The phone went. I picked up, said,

“Yeah.”

“Jack, it’s Bill.”

“Hi, Bill.”

“I’m calling for a progress report.”

“Oh.”

“So, what progress?”

“Inquiries are in hand.”

Bitter laugh, then,

“You sound like a guard.”

“Old habits, eh?”

“Except I don’t want to hear that shite.”

“It takes time, Bill.”

“And who told you to involve that religious fuck, Flood?”

“Nobody told me. You want to find someone, he’s the best.”

“I’m telling you, keep him the fuck outa my affairs.”

I was getting tired of this, said,

“What are you going to do, fire me?”

I could hear his intake of breath, then,

“Don’t get fucking smart with me, Jack. You definitely don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t take threats well, Bill.”

“Time you learned.”

Click.

I tried to go back to the book, but the spell was gone. What I most wanted to do was to go down to Sweeney’s and kick the bejaysus out of Bill. I grabbed my jacket and took the hinges off the door. Childish but satisfying.

In St Anthony’s Lane, there is a coffee shop. Invisible to most pedestrians, it’s run by a Basque. I’d intended asking how he washed up in Galway but had never found the energy. Plus, caution said that Basques don’t do probing good. As usual, it was doing a brisk trade. Law clerks from the Courthouse, teachers from the Mercy school, a random student and two Spanish fishermen. The owner said,

“Jacques!”

I don’t have the witty reply to this, nor could I remember his name, so went with,

“How’re you doing?”

Lame, right?

Didn’t faze him. He said,

“Cafe con leche, grande.”

“Grand.”

He lingered, then said,

“I miss Glenroe.”

A Basque who longed for Wesley Burrows; the world was indeed on its axis. I’d been in a few weeks back and a group of students were turning CDs into ashtrays. One of them said,

“Don’t worry, it’s Garth Brooks.”

He had a faded Marilyn Manson badge on his notebook. I knew the two events were connected, but I couldn’t work up the energy to work it out. The coffee came, and the owner asked,

“Food?”

“No, I’m good.”

I stirred the liquid, anticipated the bitter kick. Such times, I’d have killed for a cigarette, then a scotch.

Then a line.

Then oblivion.

Physically, I shook myself, in an effort to dispel the harpies. Loreena McKennitt was playing and I let myself bend to the music. Glanced up to see my mother pass. Old Galwegians always used the lane to reach the abbey.

She was linking Fr Malachy. He, of course, was enveloped in cigarette smoke. Once in Carol O’Connell’s The Judas Child I’d come across

I mouthed,

“Amen.”

I was in Nestor’s, on my second glass of sparkling Balway water. That the day would come when an Irish person paid for water and paid dear is astonishing. Jeff said,

“You’re doing well.”

“At what?”

“You know, the drinking... the cigs... the other stuff.”

I shook my head, said,

“I’m flapping against the wind.”

He stopped polishing a glass, looked up, asked,

“What does that mean?”

“I’m biting a bullet, and I’m sick of the taste of metal in my mouth.”

He put down the glass, leaned on the counter, said,

“Very poetic if a little ominous.”

“Whoever said the clean life would help you live longer was right. They neglected to add you’d feel every boring minute.”

“It’ll get easier, Jack.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

Jeff had been sober for twenty years. Then, riding on a low after the baby’s birth, he’d gone on the batter. A one-night rampage. I’d been the one to rein him in. A drunk for the defence, he’d been back on track since. I asked,

“Ever feel the need to blow again?”

“Sure.”

“That’s it... sure?”

“No point in dwelling on it, Jack. I can’t drink, end of story.”

I sort of hated him then. Not in a ferocious fashion but the dull ache that sickness feels for recovery. I pushed the water away and got up to leave. Jeff said,

“Cathy’s been surfing the net, trying to track down that information you wanted. She hasn’t had any luck yet.”

“OK, take it easy.” I was leaving when the sentry spoke to me; I nearly dropped from surprise, as he almost never did. He said,

“You’re investigating the Magdalen? Well, I remember it well. When we were kids, we’d pass by there and see them working in the gardens. God forgive me, but we called them names and jeered them. The nuns were standing over the poor bitches like wardens. I remember they had leather straps, and we got our kicks thinking about them walloping the girls. Did you know that when the public finally knew what was going on, the outcry was so great that in the middle of the night, the bodies of dead Maggies were exhumed and whisked off to the cemetery to be buried? There’s a mass grave there with all the nameless girls below.”

He took a deep breath, and I offered to buy him a pint. He said yes but not to expect any more talk; that was his week’s ration. I left, visualising the dead girls that were never claimed.

I was heading towards the hotel when a BMW pulled up. A man got out, said,

“Jack Taylor?”

He was definitely the largest man I’d ever seen. At garda training at Templemore, I’d seen some of the biggest the country can produce. The midlands in particular yielded men who’d give new meaning to the term massive. Oddly enough, they made lousy cops. This guy towered above me. His head was bald, adding to his menace. Dressed in a white tracksuit, he eyed me with derision. What else could I reply but,

“Who’s asking?”

He stretched out his hand and literally flung me into the car, then crowded in beside me. Said,

“Bill would like a word.”

With his bulk, there wasn’t a whole lot of room. I was jammed up against him, said,

“I hope you showered.”

“Shut your mouth.”

I did.

They took me to Sweeney’s. Ominously, not a customer in the pub. The giant pushed me ahead, said,

“Bill’s in the cellar.”

Bill was wearing a boiler suit, said,

“Don’t want to get my clothes dirty.”

A single hard chair in the middle, surrounded by barrels; the smell of yeast was overpowering. I must have made a face, as Bill said,

“I’d have thought it was mother’s milk to you.”

“You’d have thought wrong.”

He gave a tight smile, said,

“Always the mouth, Jack; maybe we can do something about that. Sit down.”

“No, thanks.”

The giant grabbed my shoulders, shoved me down, tied my hands and put a blindfold on me. Bill said,

“Casey doesn’t like you, Jack.”

“Gee... that’s worrying.”

I got a wallop to my left ear. It hurt like a bastard. Bill said,

“Excuse the dramatics, but you don’t want to actually see Nev. He’s kind of shy. He’s a huge fan of The Deer Hunter and he likes to play, so I’ll talk you through this.”

I could smell Juicy Fruit, and the strength of the scent made me want to gag. I heard a gun being cocked, and Bill said,

“You owe me twice,Jack.”

“I thought we were working on that.”

“But you need to focus, Jack. You’re not paying attention. Nev is holding an old revolver ‘cause he’s an old fashioned guy, and he’s put two bullets in there and yes, that sound you hear is him spinning the barrel. OK, folks, here we go; let’s play.”

The sound of the hammer hitting an empty chamber put the fear of God into me, and I thought I’d pass out. Bill said,

“Gee, lucky.”

Sweat rolled into my eyes. I realised I’d bitten my tongue, could taste blood in my mouth. The gun was withdrawn, and Bill said,

“Halfway there, but to hell or salvation? How you doing, Jack?”

I wasn’t doing too good.

I said,

“Fuck you, Bill.”

“You want me to spin or just go for it?”

The muzzle against my head again, the giant sniggering. I swear he was grinning. Nev thumbed the hammer, fired.

Click on empty.

A tremor shook my whole body. I hadn’t vented my bowels but it was close. My teeth were chattering. Bill said,

“Jeez, talk about luck.”

I couldn’t find my voice and he added,

“I think we’ve got you focused. Get results real soon, Jack.”

And I heard him walk away, Nev talking quietly with him as they went. The giant tilted my chair, and I went face down on the stone floor. Water, beer and God knows what else had pooled together. He untied my hands, pulled the blindfold roughly and spat; then he, too, walked to the stairs.

I pushed myself up and another spasm hit. I leaned against a keg, trying to still my hammering heart. Finally, I moved and I slowly climbed up the stairs. The bar was hopping, almost all the space occupied. No sign of Bill, Nev or the giant. Black dots danced before my eyes and I pushed forward, shouted,

“Large Jameson.”

No response. I edged in past a docker who gave me the look. Whatever he saw in my face, he decided to give me room. The barman continued to ignore me. I shouted,

“Gimme a bloody Jameson.”

He stopped, grinned, said,

“You had your shots; now you’re barred.”

Guffaws from the crowd. I slunk out of there with my soul in ribbons. Wouldn’t you know, the weather had picked up, an almost bright sun, high in the sky. A man passing, said,

“Isn’t it great to be alive?”

I had no answer. Least none that didn’t require fisticuffs.

Pure rage can operate on either of two levels. There’s the hot, smouldering, all-encompassing kind that instantly lashes out. Seeking immediate annihilation. There’s the second that comes from a colder place. Fermented in ice, it withdraws upon itself, feeding on quiet ferocity for a suitable occasion. This is the deadliest.

Most of my battered life, I’d been afflicted with the second, and with dire consequences. As I watched the sun bounce off the water, I submerged in this. The claws of patience sucking deep into my psyche felt as dangerous as I’d ever felt.

Such times, to stir the cauldron, my mind seizes on a mantra to keep the madness corralled. A mental front to help me function as the fires are built within. There is never rhyme or reason to the chant. My subconscious throws up some non-related barrier to maintain my mobility. When I’d been discharged from the guards, I’d had one session with a psychiatrist and outlined the above.

He said,

“You’re bordering on pathological psychosis.”

I’d stared at him for full five minutes, then answered,

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

He’d offered a course of tranquillizers, and to that I’d given him my police smile. The one that says,

“Watch your back.”

As I turned from the docks and walked towards Merchant’s Road, the mantra began.

Hannibal Lector’s words to Clarice Starling in the dungeon for the criminally insane:

Over and over, those words played, and I was back at the hotel before I realised. A homeless person approached, and I mechanically handed over some money. He wasn’t pleased, asked,

“That’s all you got?”

I turned to him, touched his shoulder, said,

“I’ve some taste, a little taste.”

He took off like that bat out of Meatloaf’s hell.

In my room, I’d lain on the bed, fully clothed, and shut my eyes. Not sleep or even a close approximation but a trancelike state that pulled me down to an area of nonconsciousness. Teetering on catatonia, I remained thus till darkness fell.

When I came to, the fear had fallen away. I acknowledged a hard granite-like lump lodged beside my heart and said,

“The show must go on.”

I was sitting on the bed, trying to read, couldn’t concentrate, so put it aside.

I headed for Nestor’s. The sentry was in position, gave me a look and said,

“Watch out.”

He did an unheard of thing. He actually moved stools, away from me. I could only guess at how hostile was the vibe I was transmitting. Jeff said,

“How’s it going, Jack?”

His expression said,

“I’m not sure I want the answer.”

I gave a slow smile, said,

“Couldn’t be better. Can I get something?”

“Sure... coffee OK?”

“No... it’s not.... I’d like a large Jameson.”

He looked round as if help was available. It wasn’t. He asked,

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Did I miss something, Jeff? I could have sworn I asked for a drink, not your opinion.”

He wiped at his mouth, then,

“Jack, I can’t.”

I stared into his eyes, took my time, said,

“You’re refusing to serve me?”

“C’mon, Jack, I’m your friend. You don’t want to do this.”

“How on earth would you know what I want to do? If I re-call, when you went on the piss, I didn’t get righteous on you.”

I turned to leave, and he called,

“Jack, wait up, Cathy has some news for you.”

I shouted over my shoulder.

“I have news for Cathy: I don’t give a fuck.”

Outside, I gulped air, trying to calm my adrenaline, muttered,

“Great, you’ve just hurt your best friends. How smart was that?”

The off-licence was jammed with under-age drinkers. Cider, vodka and Red Bull were definitely the drug of choice. The guy behind the counter was in his bad thirties. Whatever bitter pill he’d had to swallow, it was still choking him. Without looking at me, he grunted,

“What?”

“A bit of civility for openers.”

His head came up, and he asked,

“What?”

“Bottle of Jameson.”

I was going to add,

“Quickly.”

But let it slide.

As he wrapped, he said,

“You think I should ask for ID?”

I knew he meant the line of teenagers, but before I could reply, he said,

“If I refuse, I get my windows smashed.”

I gave him the money and said,

“The guards can shut you down.”

“Like they give a toss.”

I was walking along the bottom of Eyre Square. Under a street lamp, a woman in a shawl asked,

“Some change, mister?”

She was one of those Mediterranean gypsies who stalked the fast food joints. Her mouth was a riot of gold teeth. The light threw a malevolent shape to her silhouette. I thought,

“What the hell?”

And reached in my pocket. Didn’t have a single coin. Had left my change on the counter. I said,

“Sorry, I’m out.”

“Give me something.”

“I told you, I’m tapped.”

She eyed the brown bag, pointed, and I said,

“Dream on.”

I moved past her and she hissed. I turned back. She was literally standing on my shadow. Throwing her head back, she drew saliva from the core of her being, spat on that dark shape, said,

“You will always break bread alone.”

I wanted to break her neck, but she moved fast away. I am no more superstitious than your average Irish guilt-ridden citizen. Using my shoe, I tried to erase the stain her spittle had left on the pavement. Nearly dropped the bottle, muttered,

“Now that would be cursed.”

Luc Sante in Low Life wrote:

I said “Amen” to that.

Outside the hotel, I noticed a very impressive car. An elderly man was staring at it. He said,

“That’s an S-type Jaguar.”

“Is it yours?”

“No such luck.”

His eyes were shining as they took in the sleek black body. He said,

“The thing is, with all the power and luxury of a 3-litre V65-type at your disposal, even your business miles are positively a pleasure.”

He sounded like a commercial. I said,

“You sound like a commercial.”

He gave a shy smile, said,

“That baby doesn’t need a commercial.”

I made to move by and he said,

“Do you know how much that costs?”

“A lot, I should imagine.”

I could almost see the cash register in his eyes. He said,

“You’d need half a decent Lotto.”

I let out a low whistle, said,

“That’s got to be a lot.”

He gave me a look of bordering contempt, said,

“No, that is a lot of car!”

I went into the hotel, moving quickly to avoid reception. Not quite fast enough, as Mrs Bailey called,

“Mr Taylor.”

“Yeah.”

“You have a visitor.”

“Oh.”

I went into the lobby. Kirsten was sitting in a chair by the open fire. Dressed in black jeans, black sweater and long dark coat, she looked like trouble. Seeing me, she said,

“Surprise.”

The heat reflected on her cheeks gave her a high colour, as if she was excited. Maybe she was. She saw the bottle in my hand, said,

“Party for one?”

“Yeah.”

She stood up, and I hadn’t realised how tall she was. A smile as she said,

“Not a good idea to drink alone.”

“How would you know?”

“Oh, I know.”

The smart thing would have been to say,

“Hop it.”

When did I ever get to do the smart thing? I said,

“My room’s not much.”

Again the smile with,

“What makes you think I was expecting much?”

The elevators at Bailey’s have a life of their own. The only thing reliable about them is their unreliability. I pushed the button, said,

“This could take a while.”

“Stop bragging.”

Mrs Bailey smiled at us from the desk. I nodded and Kirsten said,

“She likes me.”

I turned to look at her, said,

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Oh, I am sure. I worked at it.”

“Is that what you do, you get people to like you?”

“Only some people.”

I couldn’t resist, asked,

“What about me?”

“That doesn’t need any work. You like me already.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“I have.”

The elevator arrived with a grinding of metal. I pulled the door open, asked,

“Want to risk it?”

“I insist on it.”

Naturally the space was cramped, and we were jammed together. I could smell her perfume, asked,

“Is that patchouli?”

“Yes.”

“Old hippies never die.”

She looked into my eyes, said,

“I guess that’s the bottle against me or else you’re happier to see me than you’re saying.”

There’s probably a reply to this. I didn’t have it.

I flicked on the television, one of those moments, if not God-given, at least God-inspired. Henry, in the eighty-second minute, scored a magnificent header against Spartak. Almost simultaneously with me switching on, he walloped it home. I said, awestruck,

“Fuck.”

She sat on the bed, said,

“Which means you’re pleased?”

“Oh yeah.”

She took a moment, looked at the screen, said,

“Too bad about Leeds.”

“They lost?”

“Yes.”

“You follow football?”

“I follow men.”

Gave me a smile that was unreadable. She looked round the room, said,

“Somewhat sparse.”

“I’m a simple guy.”

“No, Jack, whatever else, you’re not simple. Drunks never are.”

I still had the bottle in my hand. Her remark stung, all the more for its bitter truth. She caught on, asked,

“Ah, did I hit a nerve?”

I got two glasses from the bathroom, rinsed them, handed one over, asked,

“What do you want?”

“Pour.”

I did.

She patted the bed, said,

“Don’t be shy.”

I took a chair on the opposite side of the room, raised my glass, said,

“Slainte.”

“Whatever.”

No doubt she was one attractive woman.

I took a sip of the whiskey. Ah, it was if I’d never been away. Kirsten asked,

“Been a while, has it?”

“Yeah.”

I knocked back the rest, wanting that warmth to hit my stomach. She reached in her bag, produced a small clear cellophane bag, said,

“I brought you a present, in case you weren’t drinking or even if you were.”

Tossed the cocaine to me. I didn’t make any attempt to catch, let it fall short and to the floor. She didn’t seem, to care, said,

“Tell me about coke.”

I could do that, said,

“Charlie and the Music Factory, except it finally takes away the music. I think I like George Clooney’s remark best. ‘It would dress you up for a party and never take you there.’ ”

She digested this, then,

“You must know about punding.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. After a spell on the wagon, the first one drives hard.

“Punding... no, I don’t know.”

“You start something then keep returning to the start, over and over again. It’s what cocaine causes.”

I let out a breath, said,

“There you have it, the story of my life. Would I be called a pundit?”

She laughed out loud. A wonderful sound. When a woman does that, without inhibition, without caring how it appears, she is truly lovable. She said,

“Tell me more.”

“In the beginning, coke makes you love yourself. For me, that was a whole other mind fuck. Plus, it gives you a rush of such power. It shrinks the supply of blood to the eyes and makes you bright-eyed. I once saw Mick Houghton interviewed.”

I stood up, could already feel the booze in my legs, got the bottle, poured another, offered it to Kirsten. She said,

“No, I’m good. Who’s Mick Houghton?”

“He was PR to Echo and the Bunnymen, Julian Cope, Elastica.”

She gave me a look of profound disbelief, went,

“How do you know this stuff?”

“Yeah, scares me, too.”

“It should.”

“Anyway, he said, ‘Coke’s worse than heroin. Heroin kills you whereas coke destroys you. People can kick smack before it kills them so that their careers might at least remain intact. You can’t say that about coke.’ ”

She rose from the bed, moved to pick up the cellophane, said,

“You won’t be needing this then?”

“No.”

The phone rang. I picked up, said,

“Yeah?”

“Jack, it’s Cathy.”

Instantly, guilt consumed me, for my behaviour towards Jeff. I hoped the whiskey didn’t sound in my voice. I said,

“Cathy.”

“I got the information you wanted.”

“That’s great... I’ll pay you, of course.”

“I don’t think so.”

The tone of her voice was flat, cold. I said,

“I was a little out of line earlier.”

“So what else is new, Jack?”

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother. I left the envelope with Mrs Bailey.”

Click.

Kirsten said,

“Romantic spat?”

“Not exactly.”

She moved to the door, said,

“I hate to drink and run but... ”

“You’re going?”

“What were you expecting? Drinks and a fast fuck.”

The word echoed harsh in the room. I tried to get a grip, asked,

“What did you come for?”

She feigned huge surprise, said,

“To touch base, see how your investigation was going.”

I searched for a sarcastic rejoinder, something to lash her with. Nothing came, and she said,

“Why don’t you just ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“If I killed my husband.”

I finished my drink. Could feel it move behind my eyes, asked,

“Did you kill your husband?”

She gave a laugh of pure delight, said,

“Ah... that would be telling. Keep it in your pants, Jack.”

And she was gone.

I stood in the middle of the room, shouted,

“What was that about?”

The bottle, three quarters full, stood on the dresser. What sanity I had said,

“So, OK... you’ve had two drinks, no real damage done. We’re not talking major damage. Go to bed. In the morning, start over.”

I seriously considered all of that for a full minute, then I said,

“Fuck it.”

What I thought about was Raymond Chandler and what he once said:

All I need to say about the rest of the night is... I wrote a poem.

God forgive me.

Drinking whiskey has led me down so many dark streets, exposed me to situations that were horrific and produced medieval hangovers. But in our long chequered relationship. I’d never descended to the level of poetry.

Could I remember penning it?

Course not.

The writing was all over sheets of blotched paper. Thankfully, a part of it was unreadable, simply an illegible scrawl. But the bones were there. I could recall sitting on the bed, remembering my London wedding. We’d got hitched in a registry office at Waterloo. How fitting that was.

Our nuptial night had ended in a blazing row. I’d surfaced the next morning, blitzed and alone in a cheap hotel near the Arches.

Here is the poem.

In all its feckless glory.

Wasted in Waterloo

Asked myself,

“What the hell is this?”

But I didn’t bin it. Folded it with care and put it in the introduction to Francis Thompson’s The Hound of Heaven.

Where else did it belong?

Only then did I notice my knuckles. Torn and bleeding. I hadn’t left the room. Christ, I prayed I hadn’t. My stomach was churning, as if I’d drunk battery acid. A mother of a headache, sweat leaking into my eyes, plus the almighty thirst. Went to the bathroom for water and solved one mystery. The mirror was cracked, and obviously with some force.

Heard intermittent groans and realised I was making them. Course, I’d passed out in my clothes. Boy, did they stink. Tore them off and stepped gingerly into the shower. Got it to scalding and roared like a penitent. Endured it as long as I could. My mind wasn’t thinking,

“No more drinking.”

It was already visualising a cold pint of lager, beads of moisture on the glass. Heard my door open and someone enter. My pounding heart went into overdrive. Wrapped a towel round me, looked out. Janet, the chambermaid, was looking older than Mrs Bailey but refused to retire. Now, she was standing amid the debris, shaking her head.

I said,

“Janet, it’s OK... I’ll tidy up.”

“But, Mr Taylor, what happened? You’re usually so tidy.”

I wanted to shout,

“Leave the fucking room, all right. You’re waiting for an explanation; Christ... you’re the chambermaid... Gimme a break.”

Could I afford to trample on yet another person’s feelings, especially as she was a gentle soul? Had once given me a rosary beads. Now I wanted to strangle her with them. What I said was,

“Bit of a celebration, Arsenal beat Spartak.”

She looked right at me, said,

“Ah, Mr Taylor, you’re back on the beer.”

Serious rage boiled in me but I tried,

“Just a few friends in, nothing too boisterous.”

“Says you! Look at this place.”

This was so unlike her. Normally, she wouldn’t comment on an earthquake. When you’re dying with a hangover, the whole world gets a hard on. I said,

“JANET... LEAVE IT.”

“No need to raise your voice, Mr Taylor, I’m not deaf.”

And she began to back out, paused to add,

“I’m going to pray to Matt Talbot for you.”

I managed to drink half a cup of coffee and only throw up once. Put on clean jeans and fresh white shirt. What that did was make me appear hungover in new gear. At reception, Mrs Bailey said,

“A letter for you, Mr Taylor.”

I put out my left hand so she wouldn’t see my torn knuckles. I said,

“It’s from Cathy.”

“Now there’s a lovely girl.”

“She is.”

Mrs Bailey paused, obviously comparing her to Kirsten of the night before, then,

“I get the impression, Mr Taylor, that Cathy is a little cross with you.”

What could I say... join the queue?

I nodded, attempting to appear contrite. Not difficult when you’re dying anyway. Outside, I stuffed the letter in my pocket as my system threatened to upchuck anew.